by George

by Wesley Stace

  “ ‘Echo Endor died peacefully in her sleep on October 10, aged ninety-four, in the bosom of her family. And thus passed a legend. She leaves behind a legacy of laughter and joy, and, in the charming shape of her granddaughter Frankie Fisher, a worthy heir. Narcissus, whose catchphrase “Do you love me? You know you do!” was the “Give us a twirl!” or “Shut that door!” of its day, is said to be “voiceless” with sadness.

  “ ‘Say her name once more: ECHO ENDOR. Thanks for the memories. Did we love her? You know we did.’ ”

  George folded The Stage and put it down, his eyes full of tears.

  “Well, you’re a chip off the old block, aren’t you? What was she like?”

  “Well, I suppose she got quite difficult towards the end, actually, but she was a grand old lady.” It was such a perfect description of her, so preferable to the image he now had of the skin hanging slackly from her arms and elbows. “She was awfully competitive. She beat me at everything, even darts, even from her bed.”

  There was silence.

  “And what about your mother?”

  George smiled. “Oh, she’s like a character in a fairy story.”

  “Which one?”

  “All of them. Peter Pan, maybe.”

  “I bet she is. Want to read me some more Valentine?”

  Two weeks after half-term, the weather was turning cold, and George was more grateful than ever to have an alibi in Don. This was worth the teasing, and George did not respond — there was nothing wrong with being a farmer, however the word was sneered, and Don was neither spaz nor alkie. He kept their conversations a secret even from Patrick. When this one friend, inspired by a spying craze, tried to enlist George in some sound experiments of his own (a string telephone made of two tin cans and a length of twine that wasn’t long enough), George politely declined, thinking it very childish, and Patrick went regretfully in search of another participant.

  Out of boredom, George even did a little schoolwork from time to time, though he had become so engrossed in Valentine Vox and the secrets of ventriloquism generally that he was disinclined to do much of the work set, having discovered that if he applied himself for about ten minutes, in prep or in class, he could keep up quite easily.

  His class had been asked to write essays on their families. Alone in the library, inspired by the obituary, he started to write about Evie, who had told him that not all things could be explained, that “some things are just magic”; and Narcissus, her “favourite boy”; and her son, his grandfather whom he never met, the entertainer of the troops. He hadn’t even got onto Queenie and Frankie, and already the essay seemed completely inappropriate. He didn’t like the way his family read on the page, and he didn’t need them paraded before his English class. So he stopped writing, resenting the time it was taking, and in a moment of protest, searched through the few books in the Young Readers section, finding something called Children Like You, a very boring looking book with stock black-and-white photographs, from which he copied the following (with appropriate amendments): “My father is called Peter. He works in a bank in the City and goes to work every morning on the 8.12 from Esher. My mother sees him off at the station after we have all had our breakfast. My day begins with a short walk to school.”

  As he went on, the changes he made achieved a kind of creativity, as he struggled to let the piece keep its own internal logic while believably describing the day of his fictional family. His father was a great success, doing big things in the City, his mother a devoted homebody. His brother, Ron, was keen on football; and his dog, Rover, chased the neighbour’s cat. Everybody else’s essay would read like the one from Children Like You, with the odd stepparent thrown in for good measure, and this is what he handed in.

  Mr. Burgh gave him a solid seven and a half out of ten without comment. There were some corrections of English (and try telling those to the writers of Children Like You), so Burgh must have been paying some kind of attention — but not enough to notice, if he even cared, that George had no such family.

  A week later came George’s birthday. When his name was read during the roll call at lunch, the headmaster allowed himself an ironic chuckle that signified a deluge of mail. There were cards from his whole family (only Sylvia was unaccounted for), from the cast of Peter Pan, from Reg. An anonymous ersatz ransom note contained the news, in letters cut from The Daily Express (confirming the hand of Queenie), that a chocolate cake, direct from Mrs. Cakebread’s, would be delivered for tea.

  “It’s my birthday,” said George, breathing in the familiar brew of turpentine, creosote, paint, and white marker in the pavilion. He found Don in an unusually lively mood.

  “I know.” Don handed him a wrapped present. “Well, you know how much it was, anyway. Happy birthday.”

  George ripped off the paper and studied the contents: a thirty-two-page booklet and the tiny Ventrilo, “The Wonder Voice Thrower,” precisely as advertised.

  It was the key to the kingdom.

  Throughout the last two periods of the day, unending double French, George fingered the Ventrilo in his pocket, imagining its potential, feeling its power. Out of class, he found a secret corner in which to experiment. The item in question had turned out to be a rather unprepossessing little object (unpictured in the original advertisement — this should have raised suspicions), comprising a patch of thin white gauze and two small curved pieces of metal around which was stretched a rubber band. The Ventrilo was to be placed on the tongue, then pressed against the roof of the mouth: “Hiss strongly till the sound comes through. Then practice talking and other imitations.” So far, George had managed only to spit it out and was yet to experience any profound ventriloquial benefits.

  He remembered that he was required to make a list of the people with whom he wanted to share his cake: Patrick should have a slice; he owed Campbell; he certainly wanted to send a piece to Mr. and Mrs. Hartley. But most of all he wanted to find out Don’s last name: he couldn’t write “Old MacDonald,” and just “Don” seemed rude, as if the man were some kind of peasant. It was easily discovered — Don had said he left Upside in 1950.

  George skated down the corridors as far as the leavers’ boards in the main hall, caressing the Ventrilo lovingly, like a new filling. Having begun to suspect it was useless, he had finally managed to manoeuvre it where the diagram specifically recommended and was hopeful that he might finally get some results.

  George traced the interminable list of names (commoners in black type, scholarships in red) and dates back in time, alternately sucking and blowing on the Ventrilo gadget, achieving nothing more than a tuneless whistling. There were about twenty leavers in 1950 — among them, coincidentally, he noticed someone called Hartley. Donald Hartley. In red.

  Donald Hartley?

  St. Catherine’s School.

  “Fisher?” boomed a voice offstage.

  George had been so lost in the implication of the fact that Donald’s last name was Hartley that his shock at the materialization of the very man who had suddenly metamorphosed into Donald’s father was too great. He gulped and swallowed nervously; but if he expected anger, Hartley was all bonhomie as usual.

  “Looking for inspiration amidst the scholars of yore: a perfectly good activity for a birthday.” Something in George’s eyes gave him pause. “What is it, boy?” said the headmaster. George’s eyes swam with tears as he started to choke. “Something stuck?” George coughed and swallowed again.

  “Yes, sir,” George answered barely, his eyes streaming.

  “Well, you wouldn’t want to be unfit for your birthday cake. I’d go and see Matron.”

  “No, I’ll be all right, I think, sir.”

  “What was it?” What could George say? “Well, I think I can probably imagine. Sweets for the birthday boy, et cetera. So be it.”

  George massaged his throat as he watched Hartley disappear. No point in going to Matron now.

  He lay in bed that night and kneaded his midriff, wondering whether he had a stomachac
he, and if he did, whether it was from the three slices of cake or the Ventrilo. He had overindulged on the logic that when all was said and done, the Ventrilo was better out than in, and if it was to get out, then eggs, flour, milk, butter, sugar, and chocolate would probably smooth its passage. But the Ventrilo had not yet emerged. And he was by no means certain that he did have a stomachache. In fact, he felt fine. Better than fine.

  Somewhere in his belly was the Ventrilo.

  Now he was Valentine Vox.

  Things would be different in the morning. Again his mind filled with muddled thoughts of voices calling out — but this time it was different: he was the source.

  He was the ventriloquist.

  4

  The Fisher Fol-de-Rols

  The debut of the new act was New Year’s Eve 1933, at the Trocadero.

  Joe had eventually seen sense and relented under constant maternal pressure, though he had done so for reasons of his own.

  She had beaten him.

  What would be his consolation? I would, he hoped. He put aside his manuals. Through me, he could speak the things he otherwise dared not say; previously, besides, he’d had no one to confide in.

  (And so, to make sense of my life, I started this diary. My message in a bottle has washed up on your shore.)

  Once he had decided, he thought us ready to perform immediately. Echo scotched that idea — and she was right. It was wonderful when we simply let the words crackle between us, or when I spoke and he said nothing at all, but it didn’t add up to anything: it wasn’t an act. Though I had plenty of personality, I had no particular character. As I waited in vain for him to develop material, Echo foisted some of her old routines on us, and, as first night beckoned, no better alternative offered itself. Thus it was that we found ourselves doing Echo’s routines to her audience at her show.

  If Joe had thought to use me as a means of escape, he had not realized how far Echo’s shadow stretched. She planned everything: our agent (her agent), our eight-by-tens (her photographer), our bio in the programme (full of outrageous lies and there, there, the great Romando name in bold), our place (far better than we deserved, the penultimate turn before the interval) on the bill (her bill), and our wardrobe (formal). Her motive was obvious — it was she who would be judged and found wanting.

  The master of ceremonies, Tubby Jeans, wearing a large chequered suit I should sooner have used as a tablecloth, was under strict instructions from his employer, Echo, to assure the audience that they were in safe hands. She stood behind us as we waited for our introduction. The heat of battle — her element — found her calm and steely eyed, the colonel who, without a flicker of emotion, sacrifices a battalion to win the war.

  “Look at him! Ugly tub of lard, but how he works them!” Sweat dripped down the sides of Tubby’s face, its glistening progress halted only by bushy muttonchops. “And if things are going badly, I’ll be here!”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you knew Vox Knight and his Thousand and One Knights,” bellowed Tubby, as Joe shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “And you know, you love, Echo Endor. And here is one more from the School of Fishers in The Ocean Deep, one more from the First Family of Vocal Gymnastiques, your new friend, your soon-to-be-favourite, Joe King Fisher . . . and George!”

  “Go!” said Echo. “Don’t let the side down! I love you!”

  We were on.

  I had never seen so many people in my life. The sidelights and hangings bathed them in an exotic crimson glow, and all those eyes, aisles of eyes, staring at us. There was silence. And a cough. And another. I heard Echo’s voice from offstage. She was saying something, which I struggled to hear. She was saying, “Say something.”

  “Say something!” I hissed to Joe, who stared straight ahead, wearing a stiff smile. “Say something!” I said, much louder, in desperation. The audience exploded into laughter. “Blimey!” I said after a moment’s pause. “It don’t take much!” Another wave of laughter. Joe didn’t move, eyes fixed. When the laughter subsided, I leaned to the side, jiggling up and down, and said to Joe, “I’m gonna need some ’elp, mate. I can’t do this all on me own!”

  More laughter! This was really happening. We were actually doing it at that moment. We were doing something now.

  “Script!” Echo urged from the side of the stage. Joe, as though waking from a trance, turned his head and saw her make a winding motion: get it going; speed it up!

  And then, in a slightly formal manner, Joe asked me, “And how are you today, George?”

  “I’m very well, thank you, Mr. Fisher.”

  “You’re very well, are you?”

  “Yes, I’m very well, am I?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Well, if you know, why are you asking?”

  The ensuing laughter was faint praise compared to their previous raptures, and it was a disappointment to be back on course. We had been about to take them somewhere new, but we retreated and ended up somewhere safe, with something they’d heard before — literally, if they’d seen Echo in the old days. We rattled through the routine and did a funny bowing bit, completely spontaneous, before making our exit to healthy applause. Under special instruction, the entire Drolls cast thronged around us.

  “A good recovery,” said Echo confidentially, kissing Joe on the cheek and ruffling my hair. “It was touch-and-go for a moment, but I knew you’d pull through. Very respectable.”

  As the orchestra burst into “I Was Only a Poor Little Daisy,” Echo addressed the backstage masses: “Friends, members of the cast, thank you so much for sharing this historic moment. The great Vox Knight is looking down with pride. Frugal man that he was, however, he’d be horrified to hear that Fisher Fol-de-Rols, the Drolls to you and me, is throwing a New Year’s after-show to which you are all invited. Now, let’s make the rest of the show one to remember.”

  Enry Edley, who had been billed as the new Albert Chevalier for twenty years, passed on his way to the stage. “Well done, kid,” he said in his Cockney wheeze. “Them’s big shoes.”

  I looked down, but I knew what he meant.

  The entire second half was designed to make Echo’s splendid entrance as dramatic as possible. The ultimate star part, Echo maintained, was not someone in the picture for all ninety minutes, but the person who was talked about for eighty and appeared right at the end, looking her very best. This was the philosophy of all Fisher Fol-de-Rols productions.

  Joe and I watched the buildup to the finale from the wings. Echo was, unmistakably, a star before whose brilliance the curtain had to be lowered. It had likely been planned that the climax be preceded by acts of negligible talent, with the result that the audience breathed a collective sigh of relief when it heard the familiar first chords of Echo’s theme song, “Say Her Name Once More,” pouring out its enthusiasm even before the curtain was raised.

  I had heard much of her famous grand entrance. Echo appeared separately from her beloved partner, joining him in the middle of the stage after she had dismounted so elegantly from the trapeze that flew her in (at a stately pace and a modest height). But I was quite as excited to see Narcissus.

  We were yet to come face-to-face. For a little while, either of us might have been under the mistaken impression that we were being kept apart, but in fact, Narcissus did not live at home. He travelled from venue to venue, under lock and key, to rendezvous with Echo at her next engagement. There he had his own dressing room. (Actually, I won’t exaggerate: he had a room in which his clothes were pressed and his hair tidied, and this room he shared with the outstandingly dowdy Diane, dresser to both Echo and Narcissus.) His was the star part: talked about constantly, mentioned in hushed tones by anyone who visited, he would only now finally appear.

  In full regalia, Echo looked like the ocean. She was wearing a dazzling deep blue sequined ball gown, which lapped at her body in waves, with a sparkling silver headband to which a stuffed kingfisher, diving into the waters beneath, was secured with a hatpin. A plume of sea green feathe
rs framed her hair. Diane, a short stump of a woman with bandy legs, now brought Narcissus to the stage for a last-minute inspection before he was taken to his mark. Echo took him on her arm, this old boy, her partner.

  I couldn’t quite believe how antique he was, as if purposefully distressed. He was glassy-eyed, his hair giving him the look of a senile don, and his terrible clacking mouth now bounced uneasily up and down, probably due to worn-out hardware, in a fair impression of Parkinson’s. Forget the fake tears, which I (and some of the newer boys) had, Ogilvy should have given him a fake drool. How would he look, straight out of a night in the box, without makeup, his hair not yet coiffed? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Echo gave him a cursory once-over, seeing nothing I have just described. She took note only of the accessories, which were perfect: the clothes newly pressed, the shirt crisp and white, the shoes gleaming, the pinstripes immaculate with their razor crease. There were tales of other ventriloquists who had become obsessed with their boys to an unhealthy degree. Echo was not one of these.

  “I’ll take him. I need him just so,” she said, to the surprise of Diane and those around her — Echo only fussed when people least expected it, overestimating the importance of a trivial detail as though she were the only one with the genius to recognize its significance. A stagehand offered to take Narcissus from her, but she slapped away his hand: “Me!” As she walked Narcissus to his spot, she passed us. Narcissus and I hadn’t yet been introduced, so I thought it polite to say something, particularly after I had judged his appearance so harshly.

  “Have a great show,” I said. “Break an egg!”

  He stopped in front of me. His lower jaw quivered.

  “Nice try. Watch closely, kid. You might learn something.”

  This was not said in a kind way, and he was gone before it sank in. I turned to Joe, who was looking straight ahead, and then back to the stage. Narcissus was on his spot, and Echo upstage, where she was climbing a ladder for her appointment with the trapeze.